


Of Prophets and Men

by Miss_L



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hallucinations, M/M, Peter dies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vivid nightmares, Wade is 57 shades of not okay, also I think I have this problem where I can't stop writing them..., but when is he ever?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_L/pseuds/Miss_L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter died. Wade was able to bring him back, but now he has guilt-ridden nightmares in which Peter stays dead. Will Spidey be able to help?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icarusforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusforgotten/gifts).



> ... who is totally awesome and like, my long-lost angst-twin (shut up, I'm mushy xD) <3
> 
> Angst. Angstity-angst-angst. Do _not_ expect a nice and easy resolution for the boys.

“Can you smell him?”

It was a strange thing to ask at the best of times, but Wade didn't care. He was panicking and Logan’s olfactory sense was by far the best of anyone in the group. Wolverine flared his nostrils and moved his head around. Then he stopped and breathed in.

“Yes,” he answered, a gruff edge to his low voice. “That way. He’s bleeding badly.”

Deadpool tore away, not looking left or right, ignoring bullets tearing through his flesh as he went. He finally came to a halt in a brightly lit room, obviously not meant to be a torture chamber. Most of the original furniture was gone, replaced by a few chairs and some tables, but the overhead light emanated from an ornate chandelier and the walls were lined with wood and frescoes. Wade didn't stop to contemplate the beautiful sceneries. 

“That’s it, boys, the show is over. Everybody out.”

Several men looked around at him and one smirked. “What’s a cute little thing in red spandex going to do?”

Deadpool took the AK-47 from off his back and shot the lustre down, crushing a few henchmen. The rest stilled in fear.

“Second correction,” Wade said, taking his mask off, “I'm not cute. Everybody out.” 

The combination of his face and the gun was enough to send the rest fleeing through a side-door, where the Avengers would no doubt apprehend them. Wade put the gun down and ran towards the bloodied and motionless shape on the chair, taking a knife out of a thigh holster to cut Spidey’s bonds. If it were up to him, he would have shot everyone and be done with it – they didn't deserve less for hurting his baby boy – but he had only been allowed to be a part of the rescue mission if he did as little permanent damage as he could. He sliced through the ropes and dropped the knife when Peter’s body slumped forward. Heart beating in his throat, Wade put his hands on the boy’s masked face, feeling for a pulse in his neck.

“Come on, Peter, come on!”

He couldn’t find a pulse. Why wasn't there a pulse? Maybe he was looking in the wrong place… He pulled the boy’s mask off gingerly, noting the multiple bruises and cuts on his beautiful face. 

“Come on, Petey,” he coaxed, voice breaking in fear.

Still nothing.

“Nonono, Peter, come on, don’t do this to me, baby! Come on!”

He pulled the boy’s lithe body down and put him on his back on the wooden floor. He listened for a heart-beat. Nothing.

“Fuck! No, Peter, come ON!”

CPR. Yes, he remembered how that went… He took his mask off, pinched Peter’s nose shut and opened his mouth, taking a deep breath. Breathe out into his mouth, start pumping.

“One, two, three, come on, Peter, six, seven, eight, I swear, baby, I swear, twelve, I’ll do the laundry…” Deep breath in, deep breath out into Peter, watching his chest rise, but still no sign of life. 

“One, two, I’ll do the laundry and even, nine, ten, eleven, even put the trash outside! You know how much I hate that.” Repeat. Pump. 

“Please, baby boy… four, five, just come back to me, please! Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…”

Wade was aware of other people in the room, but ignored them in favour of administering a few sharp, hard blows to Peter’s sternum. He felt hot moisture fall down his cheeks and the body in front of him shook with the hits, but stilled again after. Wade sat back on his haunches, tears impeding his sight completely now, and cradled the thin body in his arms, rocking them both softly.

“Please, baby boy, come back to me. I…” Well, if he couldn’t say it now, then when? “I love you,” the merc whispered softly against his lover’s temple. “Please…”

With a shrill gasp, the lifeless body in Wade’s arms stirred. He looked down to see two wide brown eyes stare at him in shock, then close again as Peter’s breathing steadied. 

“Oh God, oh lord, Petey!” Wade was babbling moronically now, but fuck if he cared. “Don’t ever do that again, or I’ll fucking kill you myself!” 

Peter smirked tiredly against his shoulder.

“I don’t mind you putting the trash outside.”

“Shit, you heard that,” ‘Pool grumbled, way too relieved to feel embarrassed.

“I love you too, Wade,” Peter whispered and passed out in his lover’s arms. 

Deadpool refused to let go of Peter’s body on the way back to Stark Tower. He didn't even talk, listening intently whether his boyfriend was still breathing. Nobody dared make funny comments.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello, Wade,” Peter sing-sang and smiled softly. 

Wade smiled back and wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist. Peter looked so vulnerable, so trusting, the super-manly merc couldn’t help but tear up in adoration.

“Why didn't you save me, Wade?” Peter asked, smile and pleasant tone never wavering.

“Erm… What?”

Wade looked on in confusion as his boyfriend’s face started to morph. His teeth seemed to extend, getting a feral quality about them. Then the rest of his face gradually changed shape and colour. It grew paler, almost translucent white, and his lips curled away from the dentation, revealing purple pulsating gums. His pupils widened, the boy’s lovely brown eyes changing colour to blood-red, and his nose fell in, turning into a black gap in the middle of his distorted face. 

“What’s wrong, honey?” the hideous apparition hissed. “Don’t recognise your own making?”

Wade tried to get away, but the flesh had fallen off the web-head’s back and his exposed ribs coiled around the merc’s hands, keeping him in place. What had once been Peter reached out a hand to Wade’s face, claws instead of nails, extending as the bigger man couldn’t help but stare at them in horror. He leaned as far back as he could, peripherally looking for anything he could detach his arms with, but nothing was there and the creature kept reaching out towards him with willow-like arms, enveloping him in its heat, putting its fangs to his throat and biting hard, sucking the blood, the life out of him. He screamed and thrashed, but the monstrosity latched to his neck would not let go. 

Wade woke up, panting and sweating, every muscle in his strong arms spasming around Peter’s warm body. The boy was – incredibly – still asleep, hugging his pillow and oblivious to the other’s struggle. Wade relaxed his arms and got up as quietly as possible – he remembered that Peter had an important test in the morning. When he had had a very cold shower and three strong cups of coffee, the web-head finally waddled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and warm from sleep. He looked owlishly at the wide-awake man at the table, then flopped in Wade’s lap. The merc smelled toothpaste.

“Bad dream?” Peter asked quietly.

Wade swallowed and nodded. His boyfriend held him tight, but didn't ask. He never did – Wade would tell him when he was ready.

But how could he? It had taken the merc about a week to stop panicking every time Peter’s breath hitched even a little, and when he had finally calmed down, the nightmares started. This was the second time he had one, but he was certain there would be more. He wondered how to keep them from Peter. Stay away? Keep to his own dingy apartment and not engage with Spidey? He’d only be more worried and would probably end up stalking the young man. Besides, he didn’t want to hurt Pete like that – the boy was sensitive and would think he’d done something wrong.

Deadpool had spent the entire day pacing around the apartment, trying to find a solution. By the time Peter came home from work, weary and hungry, Wade still hadn’t come up with an answer. He got some respite while cooking and accompanying the young hero on patrol, but in the end, they went to bed. Technically, Wade couldn’t die of exhaustion, and hence didn't have to sleep. Sure, he would need to eat more to replenish his energy, and could perhaps have a nap while Peter was gone for the day. The problem was, however, that Spidey’s rhythmic sniffing had a very hypnotic effect on the merc. Five minutes listening to Peter breathe, and he was gone. So, before he could remember to get out of bed and go be somewhere else, Wade had already fallen asleep, dimly hoping he wouldn't have another dream. Fate obliged, for once.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days had gone by without any major crises. No nightmares, no deaths or maimings, no tears. Wade relaxed.

\---

He felt the hot blood seep through his fingers. Nobody would ever be able to convince Wade that blood was red, because he had _seen_ that it wasn't. It was as black as a starless night, and just as impalpable. He was sitting on his knees in front of Peter’s body, the spandex of the boy’s suit slowly peeling off and decaying. His skin and tissue followed, then his organs, in terrifying slow motion, until nothing was left but a bare skeleton, white and gleaming. 

He looked up at the boy’s face – it was still alive! A rueful smile stretched his red lips and his beautiful doe eyes locked sadly with Wade’s. Blood welled up in Peter’s eyes, spilling over his cheeks, covering his face, his skeleton body, the floor; engulfing Wade until he saw nothing else but liquid blackness around him. It entered his nose and eyes, snaked itself into his ears and curled around his intestines, dissolving his body until he became one with the ocean of blood.

Wade woke up panting and sweating again. However, this time, he was also screaming and thrashing around. The bed was empty, but it was still dark out. _Shit, where-?_ A very pale face was looking down on Wade from the ceiling, and for a second he dreaded that he was still dreaming, but then Peter flopped softly down on top of him and hugged him tight, scaring away the remnants of the nightmare with his weight and body heat. They didn't talk, at first.

“I'm here, Wade. I'm alive,” Peter ventured softly after a while.

The big merc tensed and swallowed a few times. _Shit, I've been talking in my sleep again._ That was not good. And now Peter knew. SHIT. 

“I… I know, baby boy,” he managed to choke out before pushing Peter off him gently and making to get up. He had to go, he had to- 

The young man’s arm around his middle stopped him. Wade turned to face Peter, but he couldn’t look at the pale, scared face without remembering his dream in vivid detail. He laid back in bed and closed his eyes, shuddering in equal parts pleasure and dread at Peter’s sheer _presence_ near him. He hoped no more words would come. 

“Wade, can you look at me?”

He tried. He really did, but all he saw was blood. The merc sighed and pinched his eyes shut again.

“I'm sorry, Pete, it’s just… I can’t.”

“Wade,” the boy’s voice was softer now. Pleading. Hands stroking his chest soothingly. “Please. Just… Try. Please?”

Slowly, the merc did as asked. There were still smudges of red around Peter’s neck, but the vision was slowly fading. The smile on his face was real and his eyes were sad, but very much alive. And not bleeding. That was a relief, at least. Peter smiled wider when Wade didn't break eye-contact, and dove in for a slow, hot kiss. 

“This is _real,_ Wade,” the boy whispered against his lips. “I'm _real,_ I promise.”

Wade breathed out and finally allowed his spine to relax. His baby boy was alive, and well, and _he_ had saved Peter’s life. No matter what his mind decided to show him, it would never amount to anything, as long as Peter was around to reassure him. And Peter fully intended for that to happen.


	4. Chapter 4

It worked for about a month. Skeleton fingers gouging his eyes out would be replaced by soft, warm hands caressing his face in the morning. Decaying skin would make place for a healthy tan and ruby-red lips. And after staring at empty eye sockets for what felt like an eternity, Wade would wake up to see his lover’s beautiful chocolate browns, filled with love and adoration for _him._ When did he even deserve such affections? 

Wade would accompany Spidey on patrols, even try to talk him out of going on assignments with the Avengers. It didn't take, obviously, but at least Peter always came back. Mostly because Wade stalked the company and made sure he stayed close (but out of sight) to intervene if needed. He even followed the boy to university and work on occasion – not that his protection was ever needed, but best to make sure, right? Peter wouldn't approve, but what Peter didn't know…

Finally, the nightmares subsided. Wade was wary of this change, not really believing at first that his mind finally let go. But nights and days passed without gruesome visions. Peter looked happier and healthier, no longer worried so much about Wade’s mental well-being, and that, in turn, reassured the merc. It was a lovely, fluffy, domestic and happy calm. 

Wade Winston Wilson should have learned by now that. Good things. Don’t. Last.

\---

“Hey, hon!”

Peter looked up from the newspaper he was reading at the kitchen table and smiled. Wade pecked his cheek on his way to load the groceries into the fridge. When he closed the door and turned back around, the merc froze, fingers still gripping the handle.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked worriedly. 

Except… It wasn't Peter. The thing sitting at the dining table had the overall shape of Peter, sure, but… There wasn't anyone there. Rather than a person, there was just a blot of grey negative space in the form of a man, moving parts of its darkening essence like it would a head, or two arms. It got up, saying words Wade couldn’t comprehend, because… They were no longer there, either. Dead silence emanated from the – now entirely black – Blot, and Wade stepped back when it moved towards him. He couldn’t speak, or scream. His legs froze in place, making running away – or even jumping out of the window of the 15th story-apartment – entirely impossible. The thing stopped its slow progress and raised its arms – well, its lack of arms, really. Wade found himself moving, at last, towards the door. It didn't stop him.

The merc ran outside. He kept running, ignoring the startled stares, pushing people out of the way if he couldn’t get through the crowd fast enough, until he was in some park and his legs finally gave out. Wade lay on the cold ground, panting and shuddering, until finally the tears came. He rolled up in a tight ball and let the sobs judder his body for what felt like an eternity. At last, two soft hands softly stroked his side. He didn't know whether he was dreaming or awake, eyes shut tight, tear-tracks on his scars freezing in the rough wind, but he was too afraid to find out.

“Wade,” his boyfriend called softly, keeping his soothing ministrations up.

“Peter?” he whispered harshly. At least there was sound now.

“Yes, darling, it’s me. I'm sorry I scared you. I don’t know what I did, but just tell me, okay? It won’t happen again…”

Peter was still babbling softly against his scalp, sweet and appeasing, and Wade finally opened his eyes. The boy was real now, and he was there. The merc pulled him closer and inspected Peter’s face, committing every pore to memory, too afraid that he would become that… Thing again to even blink. The young man enveloped him with his soft, pliant body and waited for Wade. He was always waiting for Wade – when would he ever get tired of that? It was growing dark when they finally made their way home. Wilson didn't speak; what would he say?


	5. Chapter 5

He tried to stay away. He really, really did. And it always started off well: he would spend a few days in some shack in Ukraine, or Syria – wherever his latest job had taken him. Then the memories would start flooding back. Memories of his nightmares and hallucinations, but even worse: of Peter lying lifeless on the wooden floor of that beautiful room. A room that should never see death from up close. He would cry, holding himself lest he fell apart into a thousand pieces of Wade. But the worry didn't subside. It got worse. So he would board the first plane back to New York and take up residence in some shady motel where they didn't care about your real name or face.

He would follow Peter around, just like before. First, only on patrol and missions. Then everywhere, until the batteries in his projector died. He stayed glued to the boy’s every move until fear would win the battle against common sense and he would run back to his Spidey. Peter always looked happy to see him, and for a few minutes, as they hugged their welcome, everything was fine. But then Wade would pull back and note the worry on his boyfriend’s face. It wasn't overt – just little crinkles in the corners of his eyes and a set of his mouth which told the merc all he needed to know. Peter would usually try to engage in conversation – something trivial, which he then probably would try and steer in the direction of the problem. He wanted to talk, and Wade did, too, but… What could he say when Peter _was_ the problem? Or, at least, Peter dying would be. So her ran again.

It became a vicious circle. Job – memories – run back – run away. Little changed. Sometimes, Peter pleaded. Other times, he threatened, or even made “in your face” statements to get Wade to react. _Anything._ But Wilson just couldn’t. So he ran. As months passed, the time between the different stages of his self-imposed madness shortened. Wade hated himself for it, but he couldn’t change his need to be near Peter just as much as he couldn’t shake the terror of his baby boy dying – or staying long enough to start hallucinating again. And Peter, rather than punish or kick him out, just accepted Wade back into his life for however short a time. He offered comfort, sex, anything to make the merc stay just that longer, but to no avail.

\---

He was trailing Peter on his patrol. Well, he _had been_ trailing him, but one look in the wrong direction, and he had lost Spidey. _Shit._ Wade sped up his pace, changing the face on his projector to make sure he stayed hidden. The well-known anxiety rose like bile in his throat as gruesome images flooded his mind. A soft voice behind him in the dark alley brought Wade to a halt.

“You can’t keep doing this, Wade.”

Slowly, the merc turned around to see Spider-Man without his mask perched on top of a closed dumpster. He looked sad and there were dark circles under his eyes. Peter hopped onto the pavement and straightened his back slowly, then stepped towards Wade, like he was approaching a particularly shy animal. Instinctively, the merc stepped back, and Peter stopped. He hung his head, fighting tears – Wade knew that shoulder-twitch. _Damn._ The boy had finally composed himself and looked up.

“You can’t keep following me everywhere, Wade. It’s not good for you.”

Before the merc could make some protest about him not knowing anyone by the name “Wade”, his projector uttered a pathetic “beep” and died on him. Great.

“I…” He cleared his throat, but all the words seemed to have died on their way to his vocal chords.

Peter put up his hands and sighed.

“Look, Wade… Three months. You don’t talk, you don’t even touch me, and you never stay. Yet you insist on following me around like my own personal body-guard. Yes, I _know,_ honey, of course I know. I don’t need to see your face to know you’re around. And I appreciate it, but…” 

He sighed again and this time, moisture in his eyes couldn’t be held back. Wade looked away, but didn't speak or try to get away. He owed it to Peter to listen. His lover’s soft features captured his gaze again as he spoke. 

“You can’t prevent bad things from happening to me, Wade,” the boy continued softly. Suddenly, his expression changed. It became malicious, an evil sneer stretching his lips impossibly wide. “Because when they happen – and they _will_ happen – they will be _your_ fault, Wade. You disgusting, useless monster,” the grisly vision spat, sharp teeth baring in a scowl.

Wade howled and tore away, leaving a very worried and very crying Peter behind. After a few blocks, he stopped running and tried to catch his breath, but the vivid hallucination kept following him. The ugly, evil, disembodied face materialized in front of him whenever he turned, telling him truths he didn't want to hear. How ugly and worthless he was. How Peter deserved better and they both knew it. How he would always fail his baby boy, no matter how hard he tried. Finally, Wade fell down on the hard pavement and curled up on himself, shutting his eyes tight and putting his hands over his ears. After a while, the visions and voices subsided. He opened his eyes and got up. It had to stop.

A few hours later, he walked into the apartment. Peter was slumped on the couch, sipping what looked to be his third beer, staring in the distance. When he heard Wade’s heavy boots on his creaky floor, he looked up. Despite his state, a hesitant smile appeared on his features and he got up, a little shaky – he was never one for holding his liquor – and faced Wade. The silencer on the merc’s .357 Magnum did its job well. One shot between the eyes, and Peter was dead on the ground before he knew what hit him. Wade dropped the shiny weapon, fell to his knees near the lifeless body and stared at it with unblinking eyes. It stayed quiet and still. _No more bad dreams,_ Wade thought with a satisfied smile. Never again.


End file.
